A Saint Valentines Day Surprise
by Reiko Katsura
Summary: What's Snape to do when, much to his surprise, he receives a love letter for Valentines Day? Find out who it came from, of course. And maybe make them pay a little in the process, too. HP/SS Slash. Holiday-Fic.
1. A Love Letter

**A St. Valentines Day Surprise (part 1/2)**

**_By Reiko Katsura _**

**Pairing: **Harry/Snape

**Rating: **PG-13 (but be wary of this turning into R)

**Summary: **Severus Snape hates Valentines Day. No surprise there. But someone giving him a Valentine? Shocker.

**A/N: **I did promise to write something for V-day. Well, this is it. It's been a while since I've written Snarry: I forgot how fun Severus is to write! In any case, I hope you all enjoy this! I'll have the second part uploaded later today (as I haven't finished it yet!) Happy Valentines day, everyone!

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It was Valentines Day. Severus Snape strolled into his empty office early morning with a stack of essays and reports in his hand, ready to spend the day—or a good portion of it, at least—working. From even within the depths of the dungeons, Snape could hear the commotion happening all around the castle. He scowled as a particularly loud shriek, followed by an eruption of laughter, shattered the semi-silence of his burrow.

He couldn't fathom why children behaved as they did all for an idiotic, senseless, utterly barbaric holiday that did naught but enhance the frivolous and nonsensical ardor of a lot of insufferable children (and oftentimes, adults as well). The giggling, the laughing, the kissing and frolicking and chocolate-giving—everything about the holiday made Snape's gut squirm in his stomach and his skin itch. His revulsion for the so called "Day of Love" ran even further than his dislike of Christmas—and that was saying quite a lot.

Snape settled down at his desk, formed his papers in a single stack, and one-by-one began to select and grade. The noise outside the hall was distracting, at the very least, and more than once, while Snape worked, he grew partial to the idea of detracting each house—even his own, as their punishment for condoning in the affairs that should only belong to Hufflepuffs' and Gryffindors'—fifty house points. He refrained, however, even as another thundering shriek caused him to spill his ink on Ginny Weasley's report (and Snape, in the spirit of the Holiday, felt inclined to give her a zero and have her write another one) because he knew that the Headmaster, the blubbering fool, would only dismiss those points and chastise Snape for hiding in his pit and lacking gaiety on such an important holiday.

It was nearing lunch when Snape could no longer tolerate the constant interruptions and decided to retreat to his own quarters. With a grunt of irritation he gathered his inks and quills and papers, stuffed them into a case that had been in his cabinet, and made to leave.

Snape had just opened the door to his classroom when something small and pink and bright floated directly in front of him, not even five inches from his face, blurring his vision. Before he could lift his hand and swat the offending creature away, it backed up and squeaked, "Happy St. Valentines Day, Sir! You've got yourself a Valentine!"

Snape scowled at the lace-covered floating gnome in distaste.

"You've got the wrong man," he sneered. He made to start walking again but once more the gnome started fluttering in front of him, almost colliding into his nose.

"You are Mr. Severus Snape, aren't you?" the gnome said seriously, and it was then that Snape realized that he was carrying a burly white envelope.

"I am, yes." Snape said slowly, eyes fixed on the small package.

The gnome beamed and thrust the letter at him.

"This is for you, Sir."

Snape didn't take it. "From whom?" he asked distrustfully.

The gnome giggled, and the sound Snape grated on Snape's nerves.

"I can't tell you," it squealed. "It's from your secret admirer!"

"Now see here!" Snape barked. He made to grab the idiotic gnome by its fluffy pink robe, but the damned thing suddenly shrieked and bolted, and the letter it were carrying fluttered to the floor.

Snape watched after the little gnome until it disappeared down the dark corridor, shook his head, and sighed.

He regarded the letter once more, glanced around the hall to make sure no one was there, and lowered himself with a grunt. Snape swapped the envelope up from the floor and was about to make his leave quickly, when he heard a sound coming from behind him.

"Who's there?" he hissed and swirled around, all too ready to deduct points and cast an _Obliviate_ if need be.

The corridor was empty.

Snape stayed where he was a few moments more, staring avidly into the emptiness before him, then turned on his heel and stormed down the hall toward his office.

More than once Snape had gotten the feeling he was being followed, and by the time he entered his rooms and locked the door behind him, he was feeling jittery from his nerves.

Snape moved towards his desk and slumped in the plush chair. He tossed his case unceremoniously onto the desk's surface and leaned back, suddenly very tired.

After a few moments with his eyes closed, he remembered the white envelope that was still lodged in his hand, opened his eyes, and glanced down at it.

_Was this a trick_, he thought suspiciously, and glared down at the letter. A mock made by some unruly student, or a prank made by someone with a grudge toward him? He wouldn't have been surprised if it were.

Snape traced the end of the envelope with his finger, and continued to weigh the possibilities. He couldn't fathom why anyone would send _him_ a Valentine if not to cause him pain or humiliation, and Snape was quite positive that that was the case.

Unfortunately for him, he'd always been a bit more curious than cautious, and before he knew it he was already slipping his finger into the crease of the envelope and tearing the top fold right open.

Cautiously, ever cautiously, Snape removed the paper from the envelope and set it on his desk. He pulled out his wand from the side pocket of his robe, pointed it at said paper, and cast every revealing and warning and detection spell he could think of. When none uncovered anything, Snape slowly grabbed the paper and unfolded it. Inside it read:

_Dear Professor Severus Snape,_

I have no doubt that you were very surprised when you received this letter. Knowing how cautious and suspicious a man you are, I promise you now that this is not a joke. I swear on my magic that this isn't.

You see, Professor… I love you. Have loved you for a long time. Years, really.  
Well, more like a _year, but I'm sure that I've probably loved you longer and just hadn't realized it._

By now you're probably either still convinced that this is a joke, or terribly surprised. Or both, I reckon. But it's not. I really do love you. Even though you're a greasy git and you're mean and nasty and cruel (towards me, more than most), I still do.

I love your hair, as oily as it looks, and dream of running my fingers through it. I love your voice, how soft and deep it is, and how it baritones when you're angry. I love your large and crooked nose, and you wouldn't believe how many times I've imagined myself kissing it. I love your long delicate fingers, and your thick neck, and your slender shoulders and hips. I love how you walk into a room without saying anything and suddenly all attention is on you. I love your snarkiness and your sarcasm and the way your lift your eyebrow when you're none too pleased (a look you've given me probably more than anyone else in the six and a half years I've been at Hogwarts).

I just love you.

You're probably shell-shocked by now! I wish you could see your face, kiss your mouth as your lips part in incredulity. I wish I could do lots of things with you. I highly doubt that you'd ever give me the time of day if you found out who I am. You hate me miserably, Professor, and that makes me miserable in turn.

I think I've talked enough at this point. It was nice being able to finally tell you my feelings, even if it was only in this stupid letter.

Love,

Your secret admirer. 

Snape re-read the letter three more times before he folded it up again, slipped it into his desk drawer, and spelled it to lock.

His head was reeling, desperate to piece together the clues of a new unfound puzzle. He'd gotten, from what information his so-called "admirer" had given him, that the person was a 7th year, possibly in one of his advance Potion's classes. He was hated by him, and so the student must be either a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. Snape narrowed it down to the latter, as he didn't think any Hufflepuff would have the nerve to write _him_ a love letter, especially one that addressed him as a "greasy hit". _No,_ Snape though absently. _Only a lion would be so brave. _

By the tone of the person's voice, and by the untidy, clustered script, Snape deduced that he must be a male, as well.

If Snape were to take the letter as a serious gesture, then he would have felt a bit more relieved. Women were revolting, and he didn't need a pestering bird giggling into her sleeve whenever he scowled at her.

The thought made Snape shiver.

With a toss of his head, Snape rubbed at his temples and groaned: he was intrigued now, and no amount of distraction would fully avert his attention away from the person who'd wrote the letter. His burning curiosity was already starting to eat at his mind, and he found himself evaluating every seventh year male Gryffindor, mentally scratching off names then adding them back on.

He was going to drive himself crazy.

Snape cast _Tempus_ and listened as the wand intoned that it was 12:45. Lunch had just started. With a sigh of dread, Snape sat up from his chair. He would be having lunch in the Great Hall, he decided tiredly. He could keep watch of the Gryffindors. A lion couldn't hide his emotions no matter the situation or consequence, and Snape doubted that he wouldn't be able to wheedle him out now that he knew what to look for.

There was always the satisfaction that his house would _have_ to behave if he were there, and that with a single glance he could make members of other houses behave, too, if they decided to act up which he believed without a doubt that they would. Perhaps it would be worth it, then, even if he had to sit amongst the silliness of the holiday, and listen to the Headmaster go on about his own school-time romantic affairs.

Biting down a wince, Snape left his office and headed towards the Great Hall with one objective in mind:

He was going to find this _"secret admirer"_, no matter what, and make him pay for having the gall to send him such an intolerable love-note.

Yes, that's exactly what he would do.

**End part 1.**

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**A/N: **I am completely alone this Valentines... but you know what? I don't care! *Glares like Severus* I have fandom to comfort me this year, as sad as that may be. I mean, it's just a holiday, right? Right. Anyways! I hope you all enjoyed this! I'll try to finish up the next and final part in a bit. If anyone is interested in seeing the few sketches I made for this part, you can check them out in my LJ (I'm also posting a mini Drarry script if anyone is interested, so you can check that out, too!). And of course, Reviews are always appreciated.

~Ja mata.


	2. Found You

**A Saint Valentines Day Surprise **

**_By Reiko Katsura_**

**Pairing: **Harry/Snape

**Rating: **T (may go up to M)

**Summary: **What's Snape to do when, much to his surprise, he receives a love letter for Valentines Day? Find out who it came from, of course. And maybe make them pay a little in the process, too.

**Author's Notes: **Sorry this took so long. This chapter turned out longer than I expected, and I was away from the computer almost all day yesterday. That being said, remember when I told everyone that this was a two-shot? Well, I lied. I didn't think the second part would even pass 1,000 words but it had, and the story still goes on. I've already started working on the third (and final) part and it should be uploaded no later than Thursday. I'm having fun writing this, and I hope everyone is having fun reading! Thanks to everyone who left me a review!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter. NCII.

**P.S. **This was unbeta-ed, and though I did re-read twice before posting, I doubt I managed to catch all my SPAG errors and typos. If you see any, tell me and I'll make the fix (Thanks Laurenke1!)

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**Part Two.**

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Snape had been right: not even ten minutes in the Great Hall and he'd already wheedled the culprit down to one male Gryffindor seventh year—Harry Potter.

He'd been trying to wrap his mind around that sudden revelation, but found that he couldn't. Snape was still quite convinced that it was a joke, though after close inspection came to the realization that it was one that only Mr. Potter was a part of, as neither of his bothersome lackeys—Weasley and Granger, specifically—had bothered to look up at the Head Table all through lunch. But Potter had, and countless times.

As expected, as soon as Snape had made his appearance for lunch, the hall had immediately quieted some—though not nearly quiet enough for his personal liking. Students, even of his own house, pointedly ignored his existence and avoided sparing even a single glance in his direction. Potter, the idiot, had been the only one to act out.

As soon as Snape had seated himself, Potter had, not a second later, begun to stare. Snape, always being one to sense being watched, had zoomed in on the Golden Trio's usual seating and scowled at him. Potter had turned a remarkable shade of red and ducked his head. In the thirty minutes that Snape had been there, they'd fallen into the same routine no less than twelve times.

Snape had, and felt a morsel of relief about this, noticed that Potter had not let his friends in on whatever the letter was meant to be. More than once Miss Granger had made an attempt to, no doubt, pester Potter about his newfound ability to turn into a tomato, and had many times, lacking discretion, made an attempt to follow Potter's gaze whenever he wasn't looking at them or at his food, and on both accounts had failed. As no one else in Gryffindor house had made a show of either trying to _not_ look at Snape or fail in doing so, Snape gathered that no one else knew of Potter's little love-letter. So Potter's letter had actually been genuine—Snape shuddered at the thought—or set for personal revenge (though he couldn't figure out, and not for lack of trying, what kind of revenge comprised a letter declaring assumingly-false declarations of infatuation, free of hex, curse, or a public audience).

So either Potter was an idiot, or Potter was actually… in love with him.

Suddenly, Snape lost his appetite for the grilled duck and boiled potatoes on his plate.

The prickly feeling Snape got whenever someone was watching him itched along the back of his neck, and as if compelled, his eyes moved towards the direction he felt it coming from. He quirked an un-amused brow as Potter's eyes widened—as if the idiot hadn't been caught continuously that day, and couldn't fathom _how_ his greasy Professor had caught on— and he flushed that same cherry color and ducked his head. As if on cue, Miss Granger began to whip her head around the room before hunching forward to talk to Potter.

Snape shook his head. _Gryffindors_.

Movement from across the hall caught his sidelong attention, and when Snape looked up, he saw that Potter was standing up, grabbing his bag from the floor outside the bench and readying to leave. Granger turned around and tugged on his arm, but Potter shook his head, gave a final glance up towards the Head Table—which was met by Snape's scowl—blushed and dashed in the direction of the doors and out of the hall.

Snape stared at the area where Potter had disappeared from for a while before he dropped his gaze back towards his palate and lifted his fork. The Headmaster was seated beside him, still going on about his frivolous days of romance as a Hogwarts student to Minerva and Sybll, and Snape focused all his attention in not paying attention.

He wondered, as he speared his duck and a satisfactory dribble of blood trickled from the pink flesh down to a diminutive pool on his silver plate, what he was going to do about the Potter boy, now.

With a sigh, because the Potters always brought nothing but trouble for him, Snape brought the meat to his lips, bit, and slowly chewed.

He was determined, if nothing else, to figure Potter out.

* * *

**SXNXAXRXRXY**

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Two weeks had passed since Valentines Day, and Snape's love-letter still remained in his office cabinet, hidden behind his books and placed under a hefty _notice-me-not_ charm. He'd made every attempt in the last few days to do something regarding the troubling item—all varying from throwing it out, to burning it, to posting it on the board in his classroom signed with Mr. Potter's name (though the latter had been only a minute of wistful thinking as Snape would have been humiliated in the process).

Potter himself had been growing more agitated around him as the days passed, probably aware without a doubt that his greasy Professor was possibly onto him. It was juvenile the way the worked around each other: Potter couldn't help but stare and Snape couldn't help but look when he did so; Potter blushed whenever Snape came too close and sometimes Snape became a little short of breath whenever Potter was in a five foot vicinity; Potter avoided Snape like the plague whenever he could help it, and Snape found himself focusing a lot less in Potter's general direction while in class. It was asinine! Snape had been more than just a tad bit convinced that there'd been a spell cast somewhere in that love note (though even after numerous attempts at Revealing Charms nothing had yet to be exposed) because, in quite contradiction to what he swore himself he would do, he'd still not done a bloody thing vis-à-vis Saint Potter.

Snape's curiosity about the insufferable prat was eating away at him, stalking his dreams like dust to the air and visiting his every waking thought. Every time he closed his eyes Snape saw flashes of green eyes half-closed and partly hidden by a messy black fringe shyly looking up at him, or a flushed face tinged red. Everywhere he turned Potter was there; stealing glances, staring, and looking at Snape in a way that unnerved him to the core.

He was entirely grateful that Potter's house still hadn't caught on to Potter's infatuation with his miserly Potion Professor—which said quite a lot about that house, considering his talent for discretion and subtlety ran along the lines of Hippogriff's penchant for seaweed—but was having no such luck with his own house, who were beginning to grow curious about Potter's sudden interest in their Head of House and, unbeknownst to Potter, had taken to watching him during class.

Snape had to do _something_ before any allegation of any kind could be started. It didn't bode well with the School Governors, however lenient, if news were to spread that he and Potter (and Snape shivered at the notion) were organizing an illicit, illegal affair under the Headmaster's nose. Not even Albus would be able to get Snape out of that mess once gossip arose and hit the press: Snape would be out of a job (and shunned by society, ostracized by his acquaintances, run from his home and country for molesting the boy-who-lived…) and Potter would be expelled.

Snape would be damned if that were to ever happen. He'd kill Potter on the spot (and that would be one problem solved, at least).

It was only a minute after Snape made a decision that his wand began to jerk in his pocket, alerting him that there were only five minutes left of class.

Snape cleared his throat, and at once the murmured conversations were put to rest and the entire class paused and looked up at him.

_I love how you walk into a room without saying anything and suddenly all attention is on you._

Heat pooled in Snape's cheeks, and he flexed his jaw to disperse it.

"Begin putting your supplies away and cleaning your stations," he demanded. Of their own accord, his eyes moved over to where Potter was standing, and the look of utmost _desire_ in the boy's eyes made his hands tingle. He cleared his throat again, and looked away.

"Well?" he snapped when he realized that no one had moved an inch. "What are you waiting for? Detention?"

Ah, and that had done the trick. No less than a second later and the room erupted in a flurry of activity; students moving back and forth between their stations and the cabinets, tidying up their work and cleaning their supplies. Two minutes in and the sound of a cauldron shattering on the floor clashed through the classroom, and once again everything had become quiet.

Snape made his presumption that nothing had been in it, or nothing too harmful at any rate, as no one had started screaming out their lungs or bolting for the doors, so he continued to read the report on his desk as he said, "Longbottom, if the mess you've made isn't clean by the time class ends you will have three days detention on top of the one you'll be having tonight."

There was a moment of silence more before Longbottom let out a sigh and said, "Yes sir," and then everyone was once again moving.

The castle bells began to chime just as Neville finished cleaning up, and while Snape would have, on any other day, assigned him those extra detentions, he wasn't in any mood to deal with Longbottom for longer than was necessary. He made a mental note, however, to make up for it some other time.

The students began to shuffle out, two-by-two, and for a moment Snape had gone cold in his dread that Potter had been one of the first to leave, but he soon spotted, between a head of hideous red and shambolic brown, Potter's messy black hair, and he called him out before he could take another step.

"Not you, Potter. You'll be staying."

Snape's voice rang loud in the nearly quiet classroom and he watched as Potter froze, stopping so abruptly that Thomas nearly rammed into him, and slowly turned around.

"M-me, sir?" Potter asked lowly, and Snape, suddenly feeling a bit uneasy, noted that his voice shook a breath.

Snape squared his shoulders and collected himself. "Unless you aren't the only Potter in my class," he sneered.

Potter blushed and ducked his head. He turned around to Granger and Weasley, nodded at them, and shuffled back into the room going the opposite direction of everyone else.

The back of Snape's neck began to itch, indicating that he was being watched, and his head turned in the direction he felt the gaze was coming from. Sure enough, Draco Malfoy was looking at him; standing away from the others and watching Snape with a curious expression.

Snape scowled at him and Draco immediately shook his head and sent a smirk his way. Draco then turned to Potter, gave the unaware boy a shake of his head, and turned around to leave. As soon as he left, and being the last one to leave, Snape spelled the door to close and made a mental reminder to ask the Malfoy twerp later what that was about.

"Professor?"

Snape's head snapped towards the end of the room where Potter was still standing, staring at his shoes and clutching the handle of his bag.

"You wished to speak with me?"

"Obviously," Snape drawled, and curled his finger in a gesture for Potter to come to him.

Potter audibly swallowed and began to move forward, far more slowly than he'd been going when he was trying to leave. Snape felt a sudden urge to snap at the boy to hurry it up, that he hadn't got all day, but he was slightly apprehensive of how nervous Potter looked, as if he were about to pass out.

Dumbledore would never let Snape live it down if he did.

Potter stopped a whole three meters before Snape's desk, and Snape raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"I'd rather not have to scream for you to hear me, if you wouldn't mind," he said gratingly.

Potter blushed almost cruelly and moved forward another meter.

Snape inwardly sighed. It would have to do.

Not wanting to waste a second more, Snape took another glance at Potter—who was looking anywhere else but at him—and then bent sideways towards his cabinet. He tapped his wand against the tall drawer, opened it, pulled the letter from where he knew it to be, and then closed it shut. Looking back up at Potter, who was still staring at the corner of his desk as if said desk were the most fascinating sight he'd ever seen, Snape smacked the white envelope onto the wooden surface and cleared his throat.

"Does this, Mr. Potter, look any familiar to you?"

Reluctantly, Potter slid his gaze towards the middle of the desk, and his eyes widened in shock as they landed on the white envelope.

Snape thought that Potter couldn't have been more obvious if he'd shouted "Yes, Professor, I did indeed write that love-note!".

"Well?" Snape pressed after an entire minute passed and Potter had done nothing else but stare at the envelope with his mouth hanging open. Potter's reaction had done nothing but resolutely confirm what Snape had already expected, had already known, for the past two weeks.

"I don't know what that is," Potter said finally, eyes still riveted to the item on Snape's desk.

Snape grit his teeth and glared at Potter, who still refused to meet his gaze.

"Do not lie to me you insufferable brat," Snape snapped, irate beyond belief that Potter would have the _gall_ to lie to him straight to his face, especially after he'd been so exasperatingly apparent.

Potter's shoulders were trembling, but when he looked up his face was contorted in anger and he was giving Snape a glare that would have, if magical, killed him on the spot.

"I said," he hissed, "I don't know what that is!"

Snape was so very tired of his games. In sheer fury he slammed his hands on the surface of his desk (and the noise caused Potter to jump), stood from his chair and leaned toward Potter.

"There are other ways of having you tell me, Mr. Potter," he breathed, eyes locked hard on Potter's narrowed ones. "A drop of Veritaserum spilled into your morning drink, a truth-compelling charm cast when you're back is turned, a switch of your quills that would have me writing every truth of yours down in your very own hand…" Snape trailed off, and watched as Potter's face had turned a sickly shade of white. His entire body was vibrating, from both fear and anger Snape knew. He could smell it off him in waves, almost, stinking up the air and making it far thicker than it should be. Snape realized that there was no reason to push Harry as he was, as he'd already confirmed his suspicions. Potter's behavior and reactions alone told him all he needed to about the author of the letter. He wanted the boy to speak the words, however trivial. His entire body was screaming out to hear Potter admit to his doings, to have him submit to him and tell the truth. The reasons for those exclusive sentiments were, to Snape's annoyance, above his intelligence, but that did not matter.

He wanted to hear, from the boy's own mouth, that he'd been the one to write him the note, and Snape wasn't going to let him out of the room until he did.

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**A/N: **I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I'll do my best to have the next part updated in a day or two. Thanks for reading! Also, comments are more than welcome (especially ones concerning characterization). Thank you!!


	3. Forced Confrontation

** A Saint Valentines Day Surprise**

**_by Reiko Katsura_**

_*_

**Pairing:** Snape/Harry

**Summary:** What's Snape to do when, much to his surprise, he receives a love letter for Valentines Day? Find out who it came from, of course. And maybe make them pay a little in the process, too. HP/SS Slash.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. NCII.

**Notes:** I am so sorry! A chapter of this measly length should not have taken so bloody long. I've been really swamped with last minute fest submissions, but that's really no excuse. More, I didn't even finish the thing. I could have, but I found a good place to end it and, well, I just let it go. There is definitely only one more chapter left (I promise. I have a mini-outline and everything), and it definitely wont take as long as this one did. I had some trouble with Harry in this part, but I do hope he turned out all right. And thanks so much for the reviews!

**

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**

**PART THREE~ SNARRY**

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Unfortunately for Snape, his plans hadn't turned out exactly as he had anticipated. Potter had been in his classroom for an entirety of ten silent minutes before the students of his next class had begun to trickle in. He, harboring enough resentment and humiliation to obliterate the expressionless countenance that he'd worked for so many years summon at his convenience, had promptly roared at Potter to get out and see him in his office at 8:00 p.m., sharp.

Potter had paled a remarkable shade of white and was out of the room before Snape could even manage to qualm the tremors that raked his body.

His sixth year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had paid dearly for his degradation.

The rest of the day had gone on in a roughly similar fashion. It became apparent, during his third class, the extent of his rotten mood when he deducted ten points from his own house and assigned Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass a shared (and renewed) Monday detention with Longbottom. Snape had been sure that even his fellow colleagues had made the refrain from looking him directly in the eye.

The small clock-tower that decorated the wall beside the door to his office chimed, and he let go a portion of the breath that had, for the whole of the day, been lodged in his throat. As the door to his office creaked open, he forced himself to let go of the rest.

"Five points from Gryffindor for tardiness, Mr. Potter," Snape said as soon as the boy had squeezed himself through the small opening of the door.

Potter's head shot up and he gave Snape a startled look, which quickly turned into a look of loathing.

"But sir—!"

"And five more points for talking back."

Potter opened his mouth again, without a doubt all too ready to argue with his Potion's Professor, but must have thought better of it because he clamped his lips into a firm line and clenched his jaw.

Oddly, the deduction of Gryffindor House Points didn't make him feel nearly as accomplished as usual. Snape blamed it on the poor company.

"Come here, Potter." He said, and waited impatiently as Potter slowly—and visibly reluctant—moved closer. Just as he'd done in his classroom, Potter stopped an entire three yards before his desk.

Snape snarled under his breath.

"I said _here_, Potter, _not_ over there."

Potter, the intractable sod he was, complied unwillingly.

Snape withdrew the parchment that laid at on the corner of his desk towards the center, and pressed down on it with his forefinger. "Are you disposed to admit your hand in constructing this letter, Mr. Potter?" he asked, silkily.

As before, Potter's face flushed a spectacular shade of red, and he trained his narrowed gaze on the edge of Snape's desk.

"Like I said, _sir_," he gritted out, "I don't know what you're talking about.

"You will cease lying to me, Potter!" Snape hissed.

Potter flinched, but his gaze remained rooted where it was.

Snape sneered, and stood up. Without another look at the boy before his desk, he turned around to his cabinets and opened a single glass door. Snape pulled out a small, transparent vial containing an equally translucent liquid and wrapped his fingers around it, then turned around again to stand behind his chair and set it on the desk without removing his hand.

Both the movement and the sound of the glass being placed on the wood caught Potter's attention, and just as Snape expected, his eyes widened at the object within his hands.

"Would you say this looked familiar, Potter?"

Potter, to Snape's sadistic delight, took an apprehensive step back. "You wouldn't," he said, eyes never leaving the vial.

Snape shook it and let the syrupy liquid slowly swish around the glass for good measure.

"Unfortunately for you, Mr. Potter," Snape said lowly, and he took in every weary movement of Potter's face, "I would."

Snape's gaze dropped to Potter's throat just in time to see the slight Adams apple bob as he swallowed heavily.

"All it takes, Mr. Potter," Snape continued, "is a single drop of this—," he tilted the vial, "—on your tongue, and you'll be singing to me whatever tune I so wish."

"You can't!" Potter argued suddenly, and he shot his gaze up. "It's illegal to use unlicensed Veritaserum! One word to Dumbledore and you'd be fired!" His tone began to falter towards the end, but the defiant look in his eyes didn't waver.

"You must think me incompetent, boy," Snape spat. What Potter said was undeniably true, but it made him no less irritated hearing it. "Rest assured that I'd make you so incapable of speaking a word of this to_anyone_, let alone the Headmaster, before you stepped one toe out of this office."

Potter's eyes widened. He swallowed again, this time the deed more audible than the first, and shook his head.

"I don't know what that letter is!" he argued once more.

Snape caught an edge of hysteria in his tone, but pertinently ignored it. He sighed despairingly, for theatrics more than anything factual, and lowered his face towards the vial in his hand.

"You leave me no choice, then."

The hand that held Snape's wand twitched, and he lifted it and pointed it straight at Potter, whose eyes widened behind his thick, rounded specs. He seemed to freeze as Snape opened his mouth, all too ready to cast a partial-body petrifaction curse, but before Snape could utter even the first syllable Potter cut him off with a shrill, ear-splitting shout.

"I admit it!" he shouted at Snape, face red and eyes tightly shut. "I wrote that letter! Are you fucking happy now you evil, greasy haired, stupid git?!"

Snape's mouth, to his vexation, dropped open.

"How could you be so cruel! For what purpose did you need to resort to all this?! Just to have Harry Potter admit that he liked you? So you can have some kind of verification of his stupid, brainless, senseless _crush_?! Fuck _you_, Snape!"

Potter stood there for a moment, shoulders heaving as he panted heavily, before he turned on his heel and stormed towards the front of the office. He turned around just as he reached the door and fixed Snape with a look so hateful that it sent a moment's shudder down his spine.

"I fucking hate you," Potter snapped. He brought his robed arm up to his face and wiped it across his eyes, then turned around and opened the door, and stormed out.

Snape stood there for a few minutes, continuing to stare at the spot where Potter had just left, before he pulled his chair out and sank into it.

"Twenty-five points from Gryffindor for impertinence," he muttered aloud, knowing that his words alone would invoke the spell that deducted points from the houses, whether Potter was in the vicinity or not.

Snape shook his head, shaking off the lingering surprise of Potter's outburst, and looked at the white envelope that still took occupancy in the middle of his desk. He pointed his wand at the parchment and, without hesitation, cast _Incenido_. It, as expected, burst into a flash of red and gold flames, and within moments flickered down to a pile of black ash.

Snape slumped into his chair and sighed, feeling considerably older than a man of hardly forty.

Somehow, Potter's admittance of the love-note didn't leave him feeling as satisfied as he first had thought.

_I fucking hate you_.

Snape let a small sneer overtake his face. Well, the feeling was substantially mutual, wasn't it. In fact, if anything, he had hated Potter _first_. Moreover, he still had far more reason for hating the boy-who-lived-to-irritate-the-life-out-of-him for simply having the gall to construct such a letter to his Professor.

A _love_ letter. Snape snorted. He lifted himself from the chair and moved further towards the back, where he hid a stash of liquor away from the students and, astutely, from his voracious colleagues. Snape rummaged through the cold-preserved cabinet until his hands closed over a bottle of Odgen's Old. Snape brought the bottle to his desk, magically uncorked it, and quite indecorously brought it to his lips and swallowed.

The liquid—almost viscous and stale dry—slowly slid down his throat, creating a burn that started from the tip of his tongue to the pit of his stomach, and Snape closed his eyes and gasped as the liquid began to settle. He drank down a few gulps more before slamming it on his desk and sinking back into his chair.

_I fucking hate you_.

"Another ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter, for yonder harassment."

Snape snorted to himself, and brought his head down, letting it nestle in his folded arms.

The gall of that boy, he thought heatedly. Children were, no matter how many generations passed, all the same; they were feeble, fickle, all too eager to declare their love for someone one moment, then fervent to hate them the next. Snape was quite sure that come tomorrow, Potter would resume the childish ignorance that was his existence and flutter off to the next object of his wet dreams.

It registered to Snape that perhaps he should have felt a bit more favorable of the outcome of the night's events. After all, he would no longer have to suffer under the fanatical gaze of Harry Potter. Instead, however, he felt hollowed; the relief that was supposed to have been there replaced by something else, something that Snape couldn't quite discern, and instead wrote it off as the upshot of drinking a near half-century old bottle of Firewhisky.

Snape toyed with the idea of taking more points away from Gryffindor for Potter's unquestionably purposeful act in causing even well-aged liquor to taste inept on his tongue, but decided against it. He would not drop to Potter's level of childishness, no matter how tempted.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Snape lifted himself from his chair, spelled the bottle back into his cabinet, and sifted through the warded wall that lead to his bed chambers. He spelled his robes off and his night trousers on, cast a charm in his mouth to prevent his tongue from forming that abhorring morning fuzz, and slipped into the middle of his four-poster canopy bed. Snape stared up at the dark green ceiling for a while before he closed his eyes and tried for sleep.

_I fucking hate you_.

"A pity," Snape grunted tiredly, darkness soothing him in. Had he been more aware, he would have questioned the reality of his words.

But he wasn't and, in willingness, let the calmness of sleep overtake his mind.

Tomorrow was, after all, another day.

* * *

**A/N: **I do hope this part came out alright. Anyways! I have an announcement to make. Er... I'm participating in an auction for the LJ auction community "Help_Chile". I'm donating fic, with possible art included as a "thank you". If anyone is interested, I have a post for it in my Live Journal (reikokatsura) that links you to my bidding section. I'm offering one fic of 1-5k (may exceed), any genre/type/kink/pairing/rating (not only the HP fandom), and it will be held as a "first priority". If you're interested, take a look, ok? The bidding starts at $5. Me being a newbie author and all, I doubt it will go up by very much. Still, it's for a cause, y'know?

So, thanks for reading! Comments are, as always, very appreciated. Thank you!


	4. Shift

**A Saint Valentines Day Surprise **  
_**by Reiko Katsura**_

**Pairing:** Snape/Harry

**Word Count:** ~4,415

**Rating:** High R

**Summary:** Severus Snape hates Valentines Day. No surprise there. But someone giving him a Valentine? Shocker.

**Author's Notes:** Sorry this took so bloody long! So many distracting things have happened, and I've been in a bit (or a lot) of a writing slump, as well. It doesn't help any that my laptop caught a very nasty virus and I've spent ages doing damage control. I do apologize for the tardiness of this chapter. This is the second to last installment of this fic. Comments (and writing tips) are always welcome =) Thanks so much to those who've left reviews!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. No copyright infringement intended.

**A/N 2: **Chapter was not beta'd, so I apologize in advance if you come across any typos or errors that've managed to slip me by. Nasty buggers they are.  
**A/N 3: **On that note, if anyone is interested in beta-ing this story, I'd really appreciate it ^^"

**ETA: **Breaks have been fixed! Sorry if there's been any confusion!

* * *

.**Part 4.**

**

* * *

**

"Class dismissed," Snape intoned to his group of seventh year Gryffindors and Slytherins. At once his students began cleaning their work stations and filing out. He glanced up towards the open door, already crowded by a rushing horde, just in time to see Potter's back disappear from his line of sight. Scowling, Snape dropped his head, his lengthy fringe concealing his face from any onlookers, and stared blankly at the incomplete stack of marked reports before him.

When the last student scurried out of his room—and he made sure of it by indulging in a quick glance around—he tidied the reports into a neat pile and placed them in the wide pocket of his satchel.

To say that the relationship between him and Potter was strained would have been an understatement of the millennia. Gone were the days of unprovoked tension, of innate loathing and antipathy. It was as if the air between them harbored icicles even from a good distance away. Things were not, and would undoubtedly never be, the same as before he received Potter's love letter. Before, the frigidity they entertained together was something overlooked by both students and staff as a festering hatred that had been borne many years before, bilaterally. It wasn't uncommon for either of them to avoid the other, especially not in Potter's case as exposure to Snape inevitably lead, when Potter was concerned, to the deduction of Gryffindor House Points and detention with Filch.

There was a difference to that tension now, however, and just as Snape could see it, others were beginning to, as well. Minerva had already started pestering him, during breakfast earlier that day, about the alteration in his and Potter's relationship and the cause of it.

Snape had glared her into silence—not denying that there _had_, in fact, been a change—and left the Great Hall before rumors could be spread amongst the Head Table.

Snape re-corked his ink bottles and stuffed them into his satchel, then wiped his ink-coated fingers, luckily black, against his dark robes. He stood up from his chair, shrunk the bag and placed it in his pocket, then walked towards the door.

As he stepped out into the hall and locked the door to his classroom with a quick Sealing Charm, his thoughts reverted back to Potter. At least he and boy-wonder were no longer at each other's throats, as they had been the week prior. The imbecile Potter was, he had unwisely taken to talking back to Snape, ignoring Snape when he talked to him, and sloppily handling Snape's potion ingredients, causing more cauldron explosions in a week than Longbottom accomplished in an entire month, without a measure of care. Potter's insolence in his class had risen to an extreme height, so much so that even his "friends", Granger and Weasley, had beleaguered him about it—a cause that was both futile and detrimental, as Potter would explode at them each time they tried, resulting in additional loss of points for his behavior, and then the cycle would repeat itself again.

Gryffindor had lost a total of two hundred points in the last week alone. It was a wonder Potter's classmates continued to consult with him. But then, Snape thought dryly, only Gryffindors (and Hufflepuffs) would.

Already arrived at his office, Snape opened the door and walked in. Shutting the heavy wood behind him, he shook his head—determined to get the damned Potter brat out of his thoughts—and moved for his desk.

The debacle with Potter was already causing weariness to his mentality. Snape was further behind in paperwork and marking essays than he'd ever been during his duration as a teacher.

He fished out the stack of bound parchment from his haversack, which he'd already enlarged and placed on his desk, untied the loose knot that secured them together and grabbed at the first report on the very top.

Snape refused to let the Potter brat invade his thoughts and obstruct his priorities any more he'd already done.

Irritated at having to even tell himself what should have been an effortless matter, Snape glanced at the essay in his hand— A report on the effects of spider legs to healing draughts, by Ginevra Weasley—and began to mercilessly read.

* * *

When the dreams started, Snape hadn't an idea.

It was a nightly occurrence, however, at least on the nights when he couldn't take Dreamless Sleep. On those nights, Snape would lie in bed for a long time, staring up at his dark green ceiling, dreading what he knew was to come.

Nightmares. Nightmares of Harry Potter.

The dreams had began normally enough. While it wasn't usual for Potter to appear in his nighttime visions, he thought it couldn't be helped with the recent tension between the two of them. Whether Snape liked it or not—and he didn't, truly didn't—Harry Potter was endlessly in his thoughts, consciously or otherwise. Even though things had calmed down between them—which, aptly put, meant they both completely ignored the other's existence whenever possible—the boy was never far from his mind. It was hard _not_ thinking of a boy when everything you did constantly reminded you of him; when he was your student and it was your _job_ to pay him mind.

In the beginning, Potter's appearance had been a brief one. He was in Snape's dreams for no longer than a few moments, never saying a word, never doing a thing; just a presence that lingered at the back of his thoughts, haunting as a sense, sometimes an image, rather than a 'physical' being.

But then the Potter in his dreams started getting bold. He'd grown a form, one that was corporeal and could touch as he wanted. And Merlin, did Potter touch. Wherever Snape was, Potter was there, tugging at his hair and brushing their hands together. He smiled at him when Snape failed at ignoring him, hovered over him whatever chance he got. It was when Potter had taken to pressing his lips against his—and Snape did nothing to refute him—that he began taking the Dreamless Sleep.

But as with most potions that contained Graphorn parts, continuous use had its disadvantages: namely addiction.

Staring at the purple vial that sat across from him on his mahogany wood desk, Snape wondered which was worse— forming an addiction to a remedy that could put an end to both his wellbeing and, if found out, his career, or having dreams of snogging the boy-who-lived.

He grudgingly admitted that the latter, while wholly unpleasant, was the lesser of two evils, and turned his gaze away from the alluring potion and back onto the dark green ceiling of his four-poster canopy bed.

When his lids began to droop, Snape reluctantly let them close all the way and allowed himself to succumb to sleep.

.

.

.

When Snape awoke hours later, it was with his body trembling in arousal, his hair damp from sweat, and his pants drenched from something else entirely.

* * *

"Is there something you need, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape looked up at the hovering dark form of Draco Malfoy from where he sat at his desk. The rest of the students, including Potter, had already left his classroom, ten minutes before class was scheduled to end since all the labs had been completed, contrary to his expectance, and he was in no mood to be around them any longer than was entirely necessary. Draco, apparently, hadn't gotten the clue.

Draco nodded slowly, and pushed a loose strand of blond hair out of his face and behind his ear. "I wanted to know if you're alright, sir."

Snape narrowed his eyes at him, more suspicious than anything else of the boy's inquiries. "I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, that I am no different now than I've ever been. Now, if that is all…?" he trailed off, glancing pointedly behind his top student towards the classroom door. When he looked back at Draco, however, he realized that the boy had no intention of leaving. The expression he was sporting was frighteningly familiar to Lucius' when he was being stubborn. It was a Malfoy trait, he knew, and he was unfortunate enough to be accustomed to it.

"You've been acting oddly," Draco persisted. His nose was wrinkled in determination, and Snape recognized it as a particular habit from the Black line. He'd seen both Narcissa and the Mutt do it countless times throughout his years. "Your lessons don't make sense anymore, and you're always getting distracted by Potter."

At that, Snape rose from his chair and gave Draco his most menacing look. Favorite student or not, the boy was going too far. "Mr. Malfoy, whatever misconceptions you perceive about our relationship notwithstanding, I am still your—"

"Please, Severus," Draco interrupted impatiently. "I know you want Potter. It's obvious with the way you look at him during class like you want nothing more than to jump his bones."

Snape's fingers twitched, and he had to hold back both a growl and an urge to pull out his wand and hex his godson into oblivion.

"I promise you, Draco," he said coldly, "that no one would believe—"

"I wasn't going to tell anyone anything," Draco snorted, interrupting him once again. It was a habit he'd formed when he was no older than two years old, and had never been able to successfully break. Snape forced himself to think of the repercussions of killing a student, of killing the Malfoy heir specifically, and reigned his bad temper in. "The only reason I even brought it up is because your lessons have been practically rubbage lately—," Snape let out a hiss, and Draco pointedly ignored it, "—and I have no intention whatsoever of failing my Potion's N.E.W.T."

Glowering, and still adhering to his initial decision that killing Lucius' spawn would benefit him in no way whatsoever, Snape slumped back into his chair and folded his arms. "And you wouldn't care…," he started sardonically, staring hard. Snape made sure not to reveal even a sliver of his curiosity by his tone.

Draco snorted again. Definitely, Snape thought, fighting the urge to strangle him, a Malfoy characteristic. "I don't care who you want to shag, Sev. Hell, I'd even support the damn thing if you got your shite together. I won't be pleased if I failed my Potion's N.E.W.T. because you were too busy ogling Harry-bloody-Potter's arse to teach properly."

"_Draco_," Snape warned him. The boy had never _quite_ been able to help himself from stepping over boundaries. That was the consequence of being a Black.

Draco rolled his grey eyes upward. "Sorry," he said unapologetically. He paused for a moment, and then gave Snape the look he used to give him when he was three and wanted to eat sweets before dinner time.

"I have a favor to ask. I'd like permission to use your private lab and stock every so often." He said easily.

"I owe you nothing, Draco," Snape hissed at him.

Draco grinned impishly. "Of course not, Severus."

Snape stared at him for a long while before he closed his eyes and shook his head. He'd gotten in trouble countless times from Narcissa for sneaking Draco candy when he wasn't allowed it. Apparently, old habits died hard.

"Fine," Snape conceded, narrowly. "You may use my lab on the mornings of your weekends." Before Draco could say anything more, he threatened, "If any word of our conversation gets out, Draco, rest assured the Malfoy bloodline will die with you and your consequentially nonexistent parts."

Draco, as expected, paled. "I won't tell anyone," he said.

"Good. Now _leave_, Draco."

And because Draco was a Malfoy, he couldn't help but have the final word. "If only to have a front row seat when news gets out and shite hits the fan, as the muggles say."

By the time Snape pulled out his wand, a particularly painful hex at the very tip of his forked tongue, Draco was already gone from the classroom.

Snape stared at the slightly parted door for a second before he dropped his wand to his desk and buried his face in his hands.

He wondered, and not for the first time, just what he'd done in his past life to warrant his current hell.

* * *

"If it's alright, sir, I'd like to speak with you after class."

Snape held onto his quill with a tighter grip so that it wouldn't slip from his fingers. He nearly blurted, in the heat of his astonishment, for Potter to repeat himself, but caught himself just before the words tumbled out. Snape, with great control, put a reign on the emotions and thoughts that were beginning to tumult in his head and purposely closed his open mouth.

Potter hadn't so much as looked in his direction in _weeks_. Twenty-seven days, to be precise. Snape had been, for the most part, fully prepared to leave their relationship, if it could even be called that, as it were until Potter left the school—a mere three months away. He'd been quite convinced that distance from Potter—far enough that they never set eyes upon each other again—would be the remedy to his particular crisis. With Potter gone, there wouldn't be a need for Snape to fixate on the situation as it were. Potter would get on with his life, and Snape would be able to, as well.

Potter confronting him, however, was not at all what he expected.

Snape looked at the defiant expression on Potter's face, the hardened look that dared Snape to refuse him, and allowed a scowl to overtake, letting Potter know just _exactly_ what he thought of his proposition.

He wanted to the tell the impertinent brat _no_. Wanted to tell him that any further discussions between the two of them, especially ones held privately after class, was a disruption of his plans, and further more, just not a smart action to take. Potter had once again, just as he was prone to doing, obstructed Snape's designs. He was, in lots of ways, like a rash—appearing at the worst of times, wholly unwanted and despised. And like with any bodily eruption that caused irritation, there was a need to pick on it. To scratch it.

Snape wanted to, despite all rationality, figure Potter out.

He was nodding his head before he was aware of it. He stopped abruptly the moment he realized what he was doing, sent Potter another glare, and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Potter mumbled something else that he couldn't quite catch and hurried off. Snape waited a moment more before he lifted his head and raked his eyes across the room.

As the assignment today required groups of three, Potter sat between his two pets, Granger and Weasley, hunched over their smoking cauldron. He shot Potter a nasty glare for good measure, sure that the idiot would feel it even if he couldn't see it, and continued his assessment over the room.

The potion they were making today was a simple calming draught. Nothing precarious enough to garner mass explosions or deserved accidents. Even Longbottom had a fair chance of concocting something passable. With that in mind, Snape was quite sure that it would be a quiet lab.

He took a moment to glance at Malfoy on the Slytherin side, situated between Zabini and Parkinson, and sent another glower in his direction when he realized he was being watched from that end as well.

Snape brought his attention back to the work at his desk and, resolute to let his eyes wander no more, sustained his attention on Ginevra Weasley's poorly researched essay on the one-hundred-and-one uses of Vampire blood. Strumming his fingers along his desk in irritation (and knowing the distracting effect it had on his more nervous students), Snape began to read.

The entire class had already left, all except for Potter, who stood at his standard spot three yards from Snape's desk, squirming on his feet and sending Snape indiscreet uncertain looks.

"Where I can hear you, Potter." Was all he Snape said.

Potter noticeably braced himself before moving three steps forward.

Snape didn't bother fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Speak, Potter. Unlike certain indolent Gryffindors, I actually have work to get done."

Potter exhaled deeply and swallowed, and Snape had to, to his utter humiliation, force himself to look away from the long, moving throat and not stare.

"Professor—," Potter started, then paused, first seeming at a loss for words then visibly draining of courage. He stuttered when Snape shot him a low, impatient look.

_Whoever claimed that Gryffindors were brave,_ Snape thought contemptuously, _were idiots_.

Snape looked away from the desperate expression on Potter's face and onto his desk. His hands were folded loosely over a small stack of his Potion journals and his thumbs were fidgeting, moving against one another in a clumsy, agitated dance. Snape, disdainfully, forced them to stop.

"If you haven't got anything else to say," Snape snapped, setting his hands far apart. Proximity with Potter had already taken its toll on his senses. He'd started getting _jittery_, for Merlin's sake. It was taking every ounce of control Snape had to refrain himself from looking too hard at Potter; from raking his eyes down the boy's body and staring intently on the roundness of his full, peach-colored lips.

Snape cursed his dreams, cursed the provocative Potter that starred in them, and opened his mouth to tell Potter to leave. He was interrupted, however, by words that he'd never thought to hear.

"I love you!" Potter blurted out.

Snape, despite doing his best not to react uncharacteristically, froze.

Potter was wringing his hands together, leaning forward on the tips of his toes. His eyes were wide behind his thick glasses, and small beads of perspiration had begun to form on his bare forehead, an alarming feat considering the cool temperature of the dungeon rooms. He collected a shaky breath, an action that made his shoulders tremble in turn, and continued to speak.

"I love you," he said again, more steadily. "I know… I know you don't like me very much," he faltered, then chuckled nervously, "or at all, really. But I just—I just wanted you to know."

Probably realizing that Snape was in no position to give a reply, Potter hesitated for a moment, bit his lip, then quickly turned around. Snape had barely mustered enough wit to open his mouth and say something—say anything, really, to keep himself from looking like a floundering idiot—when Potter turned around again in one quick movement, eyes narrowed and jaw set in fierce determination, and stormed the three yard difference between the two of them.

Potter moved close enough that his legs hit the edge of the desk, and yet he still continued to inch forward, his small frame hovering over Snape like a Dementor. He inhaled deeply and then, far more quickly than Snape's whirling mind was currently able of catching up with, cupped Snape's cheeks with his hands and leaned in.

It was like one of those muggle telly shows, Snape thought, as Potter's face bore down on his own and his fingers brushed against the hair on his face. The ones in black and white where the screen blurred and moved in slow motion. In one moment Potter's lips were ghosting over his, eyes open and looking at Snape with nervous resolve. In the next a pair of dry, warm lips were being pressed against his own, and any hope of mental coherency gone out the floo.

Potter's hands roamed over the side of his face. His lips pressed deeply against Snape's. His eyes were closed, his breathing suspended, and for a moment it seemed as if time had stopped, frozen in a moment of fuzzy detachment.

And then Potter's lips began to move—slowly, at first, cautiously and tentatively. And then faster, even despite Snape's own immobility. They roamed softly over Snape's closed lips, brushing the upper one and nibbling the bottom. It was when a hot tongue pressed between the crease, when a wet line moved across the fold, that the disconnected haze in Snape's head altered and turned into something completely else and he gasped.

Potter took the startled movement to push his tongue between Snape's parted lips. He quickly circled Snape's tongue with his own, slid the fleshy organ above it, and brought his hand from Snape's cheek to wrap around his neck.

It was blissful— the feel of tongues moving against each other, of lips pressing together. That, on top of the long forgotten feel of fingers running through his hair, of another person's breath mingling with his own, was enough to have Snape completely lost.

Snape forgot everything else that wasn't Potter's mouth, wasn't Potter's hands. He forgot that he was being kissed, was kissing back, his_student_. Forgot that he was snogging a boy young enough to have been his own son. He wrapped his fingers around Potter's slim shoulders and tried to bring them closer.

Potter was making the most delicious sounds imaginable against him. They were sounds of need, sounds of desperate want, and they ran straight down Snape's stomach and sank to his hardening cock. He moaned when Potter hoisted himself on the desk and pulled him to stand, then brought their clothed chests flushed together. Groaned when the fingers playing with his hair descended to the dip of his back.

Everything was faint, from the lightness in his head to the cotton feeling in his chest. It was faint, and hot, and hurried, and he wanted _more_of it. More of the skin Potter had revealed in his dreams, more of those strong hands on him.

Potter's lips detached from his and Snape nearly made a whining sound before they traveled down and began sucking on the wings of his collar bone. Snape brought his head back, groaning as Potter's tongue moved up toward his neck and began lapping at the exposed skin of his throat. His hands slid down Potter's sides, along his stomach, across his chest. They bunched into the thick fabric of his robes and didn't let go.

When Potter's hands moved down his back and tightened around his arse, Snape jutted his hips forward and hissed.

It had been too long since he'd last touched another person or last had someone touch him. Entirely too long.

Potter was all mouth and skin and hands, and Snape never wanted to let him go. Despite the fogginess in his head, he imagined tearing the boy's clothes off, imagined laying him naked on the top of his desk and doing things to him that should never be done in school.

Potter hiked Snape's robes up and slipped his hands onto the bare flesh of his middle back. Snape groaned again, uncaring how it made him seem, and sharply bit Potter's lower lip.

"Oh God, _Snape_." Potter cried loudly.

And just like that, the haze ended.

Snape gasped and forced himself backward, nearly causing Potter, who'd been clinging to him, to fall off the desk. He stared at Potter with wide, astonished eyes, and tried to control the heavy breathing that was making his chest ache.

"Bloody hell," he swore.

Potter stared at him, flushed and panting, eyes dark and large and _open_. Snape briefly wondered where his glasses—or tie—had gone.

"Snape—" he started, but Snape lifted a single hand to shut him up.

He abstained from making a further fool of himself by slumping to his knees or covering his hands with his face, and did his utmost to collect himself. When his heart had calmed down, and his breathing eased, and the hardness of his cock the only thing left to worry about, he stoned his features and told Potter in a voice he hoped was steady, "Leave."

Potter opened his mouth, ready to argue, but promptly closed it at the glare that was sent his way.

"Leave now, Potter!" Snape roared, chest trembling with too many emotions to keep up with.

Potter's eyes narrowed angrily and he quickly crawled off the desk. He walked towards the classroom door and opened it, then paused before he even took a step out.

"You liked it too, Snape," he snapped at him, and slipped out of the room, shutting the door with a harsh snap, before Snape could say anything else.

With his classroom empty, and no one around to witness him, Snape allowed himself to fall into his chair and bury his face in his hands.

What had he _done_?

He'd snogged Harry Potter. He'd snogged his _student_. He'd snogged the son of the man he hated most in the world.

And he'd liked it.

It had been a long time since Snape had wanted so desperately to break something. He'd matured of such inclinations after his first year of teaching at Hogwarts, the last time being when some foolish child, one whose name he could not even remember, had dropped lizard eyes into an Nocturn Potion and set his entire classroom. That time, Snape had shut himself away in his chambers and had shattered everything he could get his hands on—using both magical and manual methods. He bit down on the urge to walk towards his cabinet and slam his ingredients on the floor—something he knew he'd regret immediately after— and settled for digging his nails into his palms and with heavy dissatisfaction watching as red, moon-shaped indents appeared on his flesh.

When one of the marks began to bleed, and the tips of his fingers had gone numb, Snape forced himself to stop and stood up.

He'd go to his chambers and change into sleeping robes, despite it being only midday. He'd set his work aside for the night and take a sleeping draught—the fact that he'd taken one only yesterday be damned—and settle for a good ten hours of calm, dreamless sleep.

Nodding to himself Snape adjusted his robes, clenching his fists in disgust of the control he'd lost and in the damage he'd done, and walked towards the door that Potter had only moments before gone through.

He determinedly forced all thoughts of Potter from his mind and, as quickly as he was capable of without actually running, escaped for his rooms.

* * *

**A/N:** *Bites lip* I'm really not sure if I like this chapter or not. Thoughts on it will be seriously appreciated. Thanks for reading! Everything IRL has calmed down a lot, so I do think the next chapter will be up a lot sooner than this one. The next is already half written. 'Til next time, then.


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